


Love You When You're Sleeping

by Mythtaken Identity (Shadowland)



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard
Genre: Contemplation, Existentialism, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Introspection, Literal Sleeping Together, Perspectives, Sleepiness, Watching Someone Sleep, stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23811904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowland/pseuds/Mythtaken%20Identity
Summary: Loki and Verity are comfortable enough with one another to sleep in each other's presence, no matter what kind of vulnerability they might present or be forced to confront.
Relationships: Loki (Agent of Asgard) & Verity Willis
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	Love You When You're Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> Another one from the graveyard. Written in early 2016.
> 
> It might get a bit weird.

She didn’t think he slept at first – do gods even need to sleep? – because she never caught him napping and he seemed to be awake at every hour of the day. No matter how early she stopped by, no matter how late the call, he answered her immediately, if not sooner, seeming bright and refreshed in ways that made her green with envy.

How many times had she forced herself out of bed? How many times had coffee seemed her only friend?

Too many times to count, she thought, and yet, always there he was, pert and alert and ready to talk.

He seemed sometimes to forget that she was not a god herself, calling her late at night or sending texts at three in the morning about bacon, and walk-throughs, and cat gifs, and shoes. Drunk texts, and impossible game quests, and how to make a battery with a lemon and some wire. Physics questions, and thoughts about the universe, and a roughly drawn comic about Thor with a cat’s head acquired from God-only-knew where, until she had to return the text reminding him that, unlike certain trickster types, she needed _sleep_, thank you very much, and the texts would stop, at least for that night.

She didn’t think he slept and it never occurred to her that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or feared to, or worse, until the night he swung by – far later than usual – surprised to find her still awake, but pleased all the same. He wanted to talk, he said, chalk-white in the artificial glow of the hallway lights, his eyes bloodshot and bruisey. He wanted to talk, but he didn’t say much, only accepted a cup of tea – it seemed too late for coffee and the wrong time for wine – and nattered on about inconsequential things until the tea was gone and he was out of topics and he pillowed his head on his arm on the back of the sofa, heavy-lidded and half-dozing, strangely soft and child-like for all his size and weight and strength.

He murmured something indistinct as she stood and she replied quietly that she would be right back, that she needed to use the bathroom, and he wakened just a little, but dozed off again, sleeping in earnest by the time she returned, teeth brushed and changed into a T-shirt and shorts, blankets and pillows tucked under her arms. He wasn’t roused by her fussing or the plumping of pillows and barely reached consciousness when she prodded him awake with the command to lie down, lie down, lie down, until he stretched out on the sofa, clutching the corner of the pillow. She spread the blankets over him and switched off the light.

She waited silently until his breathing grew deep and steady, touched his hair gently, and went to bed.

He slept through the night and into the morning, through her breakfast preparations and the smell of sausages and bacon, through the morning and into the afternoon, through her lunch preparations and the clatter of dropped cutlery, and through part of the afternoon to wake a little after two, dazed and blinking, his hoodie rucked up on one side and his hair in disarray. She offered him a grilled cheese and the sausages and bacon she had put by and he accepted them with a mixed look of gratitude and confusion.

“You kind of passed out here,” she offered by way of explanation.

“I remember coming down,” he agreed between quick and eager bites. He seemed ravenous, but held himself back, perhaps in courtesy. “I remember…uh… having tea, but that’s all.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “You didn’t look too good. Are you feeling better?”

He hesitated before nodding.

“I was just tired.”

She waited a moment, watching him eat, and then allowed her curiosity some rein.

“You know, I didn’t even think you slept.”

“I sleep,” he told her, eyes darting off to the side, his reply wary in spite of being the truth. “We Asgardian types don’t need much sleep. We can exhaust ourselves, of course, although that doesn’t happen unless there’s a whole lot of work or a heavy-duty fight going on, but, generally speaking, we can go a long time without. We usually sleep anyway though. It’s good for physical bodies to sleep – like general maintenance – but it also just feels nice. It can be really self-indulgent when you think about it: curling up in warm blankets after a rough day and just letting yourself drift…”

He trailed off, looked momentarily disoriented, and then dragged himself back.

“It’s nice,” he finished, focused on a piece of bacon.

“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” she told him, uncertain as to whether or not she actually was. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’m worried because you looked exhausted last night and you’ve been out for at least twelve hours. You say you don’t need much sleep, but have you been getting any at all?

“I…” he said and trailed off again, fiddling with a piece of sausage.

She didn’t force him, waiting patiently for his reply while he ate a few bites of what remained on his plate. Eventually, he gave in.

“I don’t like sleeping,” he said. “I mean, I like sleeping in general – but I haven’t liked it lately. Actually, it’s not sleep, really. It’s waking up. I don’t like waking up. I don’t… Not sleeping makes tomorrow come more slowly. Gives me time to get ready for it. And when it’s here, I’m already up, so it doesn’t hit quite so hard. You know?”

“Yes,” she said. She did. She had been awake late the night before for a similar reason. “I know what that’s like, but you can’t go on forever that way.”

“I know, but I can go on a long time,” he told her.

She let him finish eating then, and took the plate away to the little nook of a kitchen she had, just off the living room. She offered tea or coffee, put the kettle on, said nothing while the water boiled, and then prepared the tea. She brought the pot out first, followed by the cups. She didn’t have a tray.

“Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should,” she told him as the tea steeped. “You obviously need more sleep than you’re getting.”

“I know,” he said, making no attempt to dissemble. “It just… hasn’t really been a good time. There are things… There are personal things. And… Well, and enemies, let’s be frank. I have wards up and stuff, but it’s hard to believe in them sometimes. And it’s so… quiet, even with the window open. Even with the traffic. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it.”

Empty, she thought as he twisted his fingers around each other and into the cloth of his shirt. He usually seemed so self-assured, projecting an aura of being so much better than everyone else, that this sudden uncertainty worried her. If he hadn’t kept her up so late and crashed on her sofa, if he hadn’t felt that he owed her, he might not have said anything at all.

She wanted to admonish him, but, really, what could she say?

“You can sleep here,” she told him. “Any time you want. I’d rather you hog my sofa than show up looking like you did last night.”

“Okay,” he said, but the word buzzed in her brain as something less than truth. Not a lie, as such, but perhaps a secret wish that he would never have to take her up on the offer.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I appreciate privacy, so I’m not going to pry, but it’s unfair to make people worry about you when they’ve offered to help. If you don’t think you can sleep here, at least stop by so I know you’re all right. If you don’t get any sleep, at least you’ll get some down time, and if you ever want to talk about it, well… I’m here.”

It was all that she could offer, and he gave her a smile, sad but appreciative, and she knew that whatever was bothering him, he would never breathe a word of it to her.

Anger swelled in her chest, hot and irrational, but she forced herself to swallow it down. She wanted him to trust her, but not even trust gave her a right to every thought and concern that passed through his head.

“You deserve a better friend than me,” he said.

“Don’t you dare start that garbage,” she snapped, allowing the merest shred of her annoyance to escape. “I want to be friends. I’m trying. If you think you’re not good enough, step up your damned game.”

He laughed at that, a sound of genuine delight. He seemed to like it when she confronted him, when she proved she was not afraid of him, although her whispered thoughts told her she would have every right to be. He could be dangerous if he wanted, she knew that, but she knew as well that he tried not to be and it was this thought that tugged her heart when his laughter faded and his brow furrowed.

“You’re right,” he said, looking away. “I…”

She tried to seem as open and accepting as she could. She felt he would never be this unguarded around her again.

“I…” he tried a second time, his face an agony of indecision. Finally, he seemed to reach a compromise.

“I’m tired, Verity,” he said, three words so true they burned. “Even when I sleep. I’m just… so tired, right now. Do you know what I mean?”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, not wanting to sully his words with opinions or insights. She knew.

“I just…” He stared at his fingers, twisting knots around each other. “I should maybe go.”

“Stay,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. She stood and held out her hand. “Come with me.”

He hesitated, and then took it cautiously, rising under his own power. His weight would have bowled her over. She knew this, but tugged on his arm all the same, proof of their connection.

Her bedroom was little more than a box off the living room, her bed narrow. She sat on the edge and kicked off her slippers, placed her glasses on the night stand, and let go of his hand long enough to stretch out.

“Lie down,” she instructed, edging herself over as far as she could.

“There’s no room,” he protested.

“There will be if you lie down on your side.”

He hemmed and hawed a while before obeying, curious and cautious, and tried to face away from her until she huffed at him in exasperation and he repositioned himself, turning inward.

“I’ll crush you,” he said when she tried to pull him down. “I weigh a lot more than a mortal.”

“So keep most of your weight on your hip,” she told him, and managed to position him, through nudges and tugs, so that he curled into her, his head nestled in the space beneath her chin. He wormed around a little and she wondered, as he lowered his head on her breast, if he would make something sexual of it and whether she was willing to pursue it, but he stilled suddenly and ground his ear against her chest. She realized then that he only sought her heartbeat.

“Better?” she said, wrapping one arm around him. With the other, she stroked his hair.

“You’re real,” he said – an odd thing, she thought.

“Last I checked,” she told him.

He slid a hand under her shoulder to lock them close together. His breathing shuddered, and then evened out, following the rhythm of her heart. She did nothing. Said nothing. Simply _was_. A living, breathing, piece of reality to which he clung as she concentrated on taking deep, regular breaths, simply holding him. She didn’t think he would sleep again, having wakened so recently, but she could feel the change in the atmosphere as he drifted off, the slight increase in weight as he relaxed.

After a time, she, too, drifted off, lulled by their shared heat and synchronized breathing. She woke an hour later and he followed quickly, seemingly attuned to her shift in consciousness.

They rose in a sleepish haze, clinging to one another, pulling apart, and then clinging again, unconsciously straightening each other’s clothing and smoothing hair back into place until their attentions, which had begun with one another, moved onto themselves. They went about their day as though nothing had happened, and never spoke of it again.

She noted, however, that he dozed more in her presence, sometimes sitting on the sofa, sometimes at the table with his head pillowed on his arms. He did so in many shapes and guises and even went so far as to sprawl with his head in her lap – although these moments were fewer by far. It warmed her heart to know that he trusted her enough to do so and she felt a wash of fondness whenever she caught him in such a quiet and vulnerable position.

She wished she could have given more, but, if he wouldn’t take it, sleep would have to do.

She was beautiful when she was sleeping.

She was beautiful in any case, he thought. Even features and an oval face, her hair falling in waves, down and over her shoulders, eyes bright and shrewd. Too shrewd by far, some might say, but he found cleverness and intelligence exciting and she had both, in ways quite different from his own.

She was soft, too. Not fat, but hardly toned. He felt that if he grabbed her thigh – if he were so permitted – his fingers would sink in slightly, pleasingly. Her shirts clung to the gentle swell of her lower belly when her clothing did not dissemble and he wondered what it would be like to nuzzle her there and trace the line upward to the space between her breasts. He wondered how it would feel to brush back her hair and bury his face in the crook of her neck, taking in the scent of her perfume or simply the clean smell of soap and shampoo.

He wondered, but never pressed. Because she might not like it. Because she might push him away. Because she might not laugh with him again, and she laughed far too seldom as it stood. He never pressed, but he did wonder, and so he kept himself to himself, enjoyed her company, and stole glances when she looked away, capturing her unique beauty in the camera of his mind’s eye.

And when she slept, her beauty transcended.

The tension drained from her shoulders and unknit the little furrow etching its way into her brow. She relaxed and flowed like water, conforming to whatever she chose to be her bed: the fist against which she rested her chin when she dozed off at the table, the softest pillows he could find when she graced him by sleeping on his sofa. Without her glasses, she looked young and vulnerable, unravaged by an uncaring world.

He wished things could always be that way for her. An impossible dream, knowing the world and the way she saw it, knowing himself for what he was.

“Don’t think so hard,” she told him, the corners of her mouth quirking upward into her not-quite-a-smile.

“Hmm?”

He had not thought himself so engrossed, but although he had heard her words, he found himself unable to process them in any meaningful way. The wordless inquiry escaped him unbidden, but served as a delay until he could get his head in order.

She laughed at him then. He didn’t mind. Her laughter never ridiculed.

“You were miles away. A penny for your thoughts?”

“The usual,” he said. “I’m devastatingly handsome and you’re pretty hot too. We should fuck.”

A mistake, he realized. He had hoped she would laugh again, but she offered only a smile, tight and restrained.

“You’re lucky I know that’s a lie,” she said.

“Not a lie, just that I was thinking it,” he told her. “I mean, not about fucking. At least, not about fucking just because we’re both hot.”

He winced and swore inwardly when she raised her eyebrows at him, her expression uncertain.

“I _mean_,” he said desperately, wanting to salvage the situation without hurting her feelings, “that I was thinking how much I… how much I _appreciate_ that you seem to trust me, at least a little, even if it’s against your better judgment. I mean, even enough to sometimes crash at my place or… doze off when I’m around, which, I guess a lot of people would probably tell you not to do. And just… how good you look when you’re sleeping. I mean relaxed!” he corrected hurriedly when her brow furrowed slightly. “I’m not sitting there, staring at you. It’s just hard not to notice how peaceful you look when you’re asleep. You always seem worried when you’re awake. I mean, you still look good, but you look tense and I… I guess I worry when you look worried.”

“That it’s you?” she said ruefully.

“Yes,” he said, “and no. I mean, I know not everything’s me. I don’t always feel that way, but I know. I know it can’t be easy to see through lies. I mean, I don’t know how you feel, but I can imagine that it must be difficult because that’s just how the world is and because you hang around with me and, even though I warned you of what I am, I feel like I shouldn’t be because you have enough to put up with.”

“That’s actually really sweet,” she said, her expression softening. “I appreciate that you try. I know my mom tries, but she doesn’t always get it. Most others don’t bother. Or are really awkward about it when they do. Effort makes a difference. Even failed effort. It’s nice to have someone worry about what I think because of what I might be feeling and not because it might make them look bad.”

“Well, there’s that too,” he said dismissively, waving her off. “I’m a vain and selfish asshole and you’re my friend. I have to take care of you because you’re mine and I’m selfish and not doing it would make me look bad and I’m vain. Also an asshole.”

This time, she _did_ laugh, so that was all right.

“You are definitely very… self-concerned,” she said, her laughter fading to a smile – a true smile, warm and mellow. “Probably enough so that, if you really want to be a better person, you should work on that. But I’ve met worse. A lot worse. So if that’s something that’s been bothering you, don’t let it.” She curled her fingers around his hand. “Since I’ve met you, I’ve laughed more than… I don’t even remember how long. You make me feel better.”

Her hair fell in a soft wave against her cheek, a curtain of deep red silk that he longed to brush aside so that he might bury his face in the crook of her neck before letting it fall back into place, shielding him from prying eyes. He wanted to feel the heat of her skin against his mouth, against his chest, pressed up against him… and yet wanted none of those things because what he wanted most was for her to simply be there and there was more to the world than sex. He didn’t want her to feel like a token or a prize, some goal or conquest to be discarded once won. He wanted her to feel her worth – with him, to him, and its importance – but care was a new thing, a difficult thing, and he had nothing in his memory with which to compare it. Everything up to this point had been physical. Everything had been something to own or defeat. What he could not have, he tried to destroy, and what he _could_ have, he placed on a shelf to gather dust, neglected.

Not now, he hoped. Not now. He would spend eternity just watching her be happy, if he could. Just watching her smile, watching her laugh, watching the lines of her face smooth as she drifted into a comfortable sleep in a space she felt secure. That was all he really wanted and it was a want so new that it lit every sensor, confusing wishes with desire, warmth with aching need.

“Come for dinner,” he said before his body could react and betray him in ways harder to explain than a poorly delivered joke. Cooking, too, was a physical thing through which much could be diverted.

“Oh God, I can’t,” she said, looking chagrined. “I’m so behind on these reviews. I planned to work on them all evening. In fact, I should be getting back to them, much as I appreciate the coffee break.”

“So I’ll cook here,” he told her. Her kitchen was small, but he could find something easy. It felt less like an offer than a need, an act to stem his growing desperation. “I’ll let you get on with things for a while and come around in a couple of hours. I won’t say a thing, just cook. That way you won’t have to stop to make yourself something if you don’t want to or worry about the clean-up. And you’ll still eat,” he added before she could protest, knowing that she too often skipped meals to avoid the hassle of making them. “I’ll even bring dessert, but we’ll save it and have it with tea when you’re done. It’ll give you something to look forward to.”

“All right,” she said, looking quietly pleased, and he started immediately, clearing away the cups and wiping down the table while she returned to her work.

He left her to it and went shopping, coming back from the market with pasta and pesto and fresh shrimp and vegetables. He let himself in and sautéed as she carefully examined form after form, marking the results, her features pinched and strained under the relentless trickle of uncertainty, punctuated occasionally by blatant lies. He refilled her water glass when it ran low and left two compressed tablets from a bottle of painkillers beside it. When the food was ready, he distracted her for a half hour or so before letting her go back to her work. He packed the leftovers away and cleaned the kitchen. He even cleaned her oven, for want of anything else to do. Although he knew she lived and worked well enough on her own, he was loathe to leave her while she looked so harassed and the kitchen seemed the safest place to be. From there, he could keep an eye on her without distracting her, be physical without imposing himself on her.

In small ways, he made love to her.

“You really didn’t need to stay,” she said, finally putting aside her work. The sky outside was dark. “That took a lot longer than I was expecting.”

“Hardly noticed,” he said and it was the truth. Time passed quickly when he was lost in thoughts of her. “Besides, if I’d left, the tea wouldn’t be ready and waiting for you.”

He held up the teapot, just starting to steep. She laughed, giddy with relief that her work was finished, and cleared the table of her files and her laptop. He brought out the cups and served her over the cinnamon swirl cookies that he had picked up that afternoon. They talked, and eventually moved to the sofa.

“I must be keeping you,” she said.

“Not me,” he said, offering an exaggerated grin. “I love spending my day watching you frown over a laptop. But,” he added, growing sober, “let me know if I’m wearing you out. You looked like you were having a rough time.”

“A bit,” she admitted, “and you aren’t wearing me out. I… I’m actually enjoying the company. I just… don’t think I’ll be much for conversation tonight and I don’t want to bore you.”

“You could never do that,” he said, “but if you don’t feel like chatting, leave it to me. I can talk for hours. Especially about myself.”

She laughed at that, and that was good.

“I don’t hear you arguing,” he added, pouting.

She laughed harder, and that was better.

He told her a story about Asgard, and Thor, and a handful of tricks, but mostly about Thor because everyone loved Thor and because he was an easy subject. He talked about Thor, and about Sif, and the Warriors Three, and of Idunn and her apples, and of Gaea and her ties to the earth, but not of Freya – not yet – and somehow, at some point, they ended up close together, and she leaned against the arm he had propped against the back of her sofa.

It took him a little while to realize that she had nodded off, but only a very little while. There was no mistaking the shift in weight as her body slumped against the cushions, her head lolled against his forearm, and her burdens fell away.

He risked a touch to brush the hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear, leaving her eyes free of obstruction. Closed though they were, he thought of them there, behind delicate lids and a spray of fine lashes, darting back and forth in dreams of a life much freer than the one she now lived. He risked a little more to press his knuckles gently against her brow – smooth and untroubled in sleep – and withdrew quickly, not wanting to wake her and destroy her moment of peace.

Not wanting to wake her, true enough, but also afraid of the feelings that welled in him. Feelings of possession and greed. The desire to hoard her, lock her away, and be her sole admirer until the shine wore off and she could be safely shelved.

Shivering, he stroked her arm from shoulder to elbow, her waking preferable to unsettling thoughts.

“Mmm,” she sighed, shifting a little as his touch drew her back.

“Hey, sleepy head,” he told her, grinning. “I think it’s time to turn in.”

“Shit,” she mumbled, blinking slowly as she tried to sit up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doze off on you.”

“It’s fine,” he told her. “I guess work ran you down more than expected.”

“I guess so,” she admitted and stifled a yawn. “It still doesn’t make me a very good hostess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her as they both stood. “The next time you visit me, I’ll be a terrible host. Then we’ll be even.”

“Deal,” she said, stretching, and her soft, dreamy expression pinged against his heart.

She held out her arms and, after a moment’s confusion, he gathered her up, hugging her, letting her squeeze him tightly while doing his best not to crush her in turn. They embraced for a heartbeat, two, three, and he loosened his hold. She held out a moment longer, her head against his shoulder, before stepping away.

“Thanks for coming around,” she said. “I probably would have said I didn’t want company this morning, given all the work I had, but you were great. I got everything done that I needed to get done, but… I’m not used to having other bodies around, but sometimes it’s nice. It’s nice just knowing someone’s there even if you don’t, or can’t, talk at the moment. It was just… It was nice. Thanks.”

She had stepped away from the hug, but not let go of his arm, her hand sliding down to his. She gave it a little squeeze, and then dropped it, as though she feared she had done too much.

“Hey, what I can I say?” he said, ably hiding the wish to hold her hand a little bit longer. It was not, after all, the topic of discussion. “I am a professional. Living, breathing furniture for all your living, breathing furniture needs.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Or maybe not furniture. Furniture doesn’t cook.”

“Loki…”

“More like those little robots that clean the floor.”

“Are you done?” she said, looking exasperated, but also amused.

“Depends. Are you done abusing my services?” he said and immediately regretted it as concern furrowed her brow.

“At least for today,” he added quickly. “I’m free for abuse tomorrow, but not the next day. I have a hair appointment. Unless you want to come.”

“I don’t want to come to your hair appointment,” she replied, smiling again, and that was good.

“We could do lunch.”

“Lunch, I could do,” she said. “Where do you want to meet?”

He gave her the name of a cafe near the salon and a time to meet as she walked him the few paces to her door, still smiling. It made him feel warm. It excited him. The thought of meeting her for lunch felt like an event and he devoted as vast a swath of his mind to it as he might have done for any grand scheme. She was interesting, she was fascinating, and such things thrilled him. She was powerful, in her way. She was useful to him…

And that hurt, just a little, because he knew that, if she were not useful to him, he might not have taken an interest in her at first. And that hurt, just a little, because he thought that, if she found out he had such thoughts, she might not smile for him so much. And that hurt, just a little, because she didn’t smile enough and, when she did, he felt a little thrill – _I did that_ – that made usefulness unnecessary.

He took his leave of her and wished he could do more, but he could not change her life, was uncertain if he could even change his own. He could, however, try to make her smile, and if smiling brought untroubled dreams and the sleep that smoothed her brow, well…

It would have to do.

(S)he doesn’t need to sleep – not here, not anymore – but (s)he does all the same in seeming comfort in the blinding white of (un)consciousness that is this world of waking dreams and (un)told stories, (not) waiting for a resolution in definition high or low. Does all the same in seeming comfort with no regard for others, resting (floating?) here in(between) the layers of time.

She wants to sleep, but can’t – not here, not anymore – in her jewelled chamber of complex keeping, floating (resting?) incessantly between one journey and the next (un)certain of the future to which she does (not) belong in states (in)corporeal. Wants to, but can’t in the blinding white of (un)consciousness that is this world and all her dreams are waking.

“How can you sleep at a time like this?” she (thinks) says and wonders (not) for the first time if they have (not) had this conversation once before in the future.

“It’s as good a time as any,” (s)he replies and does (not) wonder how such a time could (not) be appropriate.

“Has the world ended?” she asks, as plain as day, for she is not, is _not_ one to be turned around and sent in opposing directions.

“Possibly,” (s)he replies.

“I thought we were going to see what comes next.”

“We did. We will. We are.”

“When?”

“Yesterday,” (s)he says. And also, “Tomorrow.”

She glares angrily and (s)he grins at the response.

“Then what is this? Right here? Right now?”

“This is today, of course,” (s)he says. “The time after one sleep. The time before the next sleep.”

“I don’t sleep,” she says and there is (no longer) sadness in her voice. “Not anymore.”

“It’s good for physical bodies to sleep.”

“I don’t have a physical body. Not anymore.”

“But you do. You did. You will!”

“I don’t.”

“You’ll see. Just rest (float?) a while.”

“I said I don’t sleep!” she snaps, (not) angry now, and then, and (never) always. The same round-about and on and off and here and there that ever there was.

Or not.

“But you must!” (s)he insists. “You dream. You dreamt. You’re dreaming.”

She does (not) open her mouth in protest, and then wonders.

“Dreaming? How?”

“This is a place of dreams, of course,” (s)he says. “Of story and myth and endless thought. All times are one. All dreams are one.”

“My dreams are boring,” she says to the (un)empty, (un)endless void.

“Such a thing to say about me,” (s)he says (grinning) affecting a moue. “Here…”

(S)he holds out a hand and she hesitates, (un)able to feel (non)physical contact, (un)certain.

“Please…” (s)he says.

A nod and hands are (un)joined, touch (un)felt, and with (in)cautious nods and sighs, they proceed.

She is soft, as (s)he has always (not) dreamed and now, as (s)he is so permitted, (s)he nuzzles the soft swell of her lower belly through her (in)tangible shirt, tracing its line between her breasts and (not) stopping there, (breathes in the scent of her hair) presses an ear to her chest.

“You’re real,” (s)he says, smiling gently, unseen.

“How do you think?” she replies (not) bitterly, (un)able to keep her finger from stroking the soft fall of hair at her breast.

“I can hear your heart beat.”

“I don’t have a heart to beat.”

“Close your eyes. Close your eyes and see.”

She does (not) and it makes (not) all the difference. The (un)endless void is fused to the deep intake of breath that (s)he makes and she feels her chest rise and fall in time, a shared cadence, (un)felt as once (if ever) before.

“You’re real,” a comfort.

“You’re real,” a statement.

“You’re real,” (s)he says. “You’re you. You’re yours.”

“If I am real and I am me, then what of the other things that are me?” she whispers, uncertain.

“They are themselves,” (s)he says.

“Will we see them again?”

“Of course. We have. We did. We will.”

“When?”

“In the waking. In the beginning. In the end.”

“That makes no sense.”

“The end of an arc. The beginning of the new. We are here, in the margins, beyond the panels, outside the frames.”

“How do we go back?”

“We sleep. We wake up,” (s)he said. “It depends on your perspective.”

“And if I shake off the dream?”

“Find out.”

She hesitated then, (un)certain.

“Will we be together?”

“We will (We won’t),” (s)he said, (cheerfully) sadly. “We are stories of infinite variations. But always we can (dream) awaken.”

In the heat of contact, in the sharing of breath, in the rhythm of hearts, faced with (un)certainty, she took the only (every) chance she could, (opened) closed her eyes…

And woke.


End file.
